


Glimpses into Space

by Iserlohna



Category: Ginga Eiyuu Densetsu | Legend of the Galactic Heroes
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Flirting, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt/Comfort, Innuendo, Iserlohn moments, M/M, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:55:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28311240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iserlohna/pseuds/Iserlohna
Summary: Schönkopf contemplates Yang at different stages of their relationship.
Relationships: Walter von Schenkopp/Yang Wenli
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Glimpses into Space

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosecake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosecake/gifts).



> Happy, happy Yuletide. I LOVED ALL YOUR GINEIDEN PROMPTS SO MUCH! I wanted to write you so many things because your letter just spoke to all my Alliance needs!! Have a very happy Yuletide.

The first glimpse he ever gets of Yang Wen-li is on the solovision news about El Facil and the only thing that stands out to him at the time, is the pair of black sunglasses as the young officer shields his face and walks right past the crowd and into the strategic headquarters. His mouth is set in a thin downward pointing line that gives his whole posture the credence of a serious military man — which on the other hand does not fit with the sunglasses.

Schönkopf isn't at all sure what he had expected but a young man barely out of the Academy isn't it.

“Doesn't look like much, that hero of El Facil,” Speckstein remarks, watching the footage critically. He has complained already how only people who never got their hands dirty got lauded all the time while as a Rosen Ritter he can be happy to be acknowledged at all when something goes right — but doesn’t need to worry that someone will cry “traitor” when something goes wrong.

“We don't get acknowledged because we're Imperial families,” Hagemann says. “Can't blame anyone seeing how some of us jump the line back and forth.”

Their previous commander has defected back to the Empire and took a huge number of dissatisfied Rosen Ritter with him. Some, Schönkopf has heard, had not been treated as well as their traitorous Commander Hermann von Lüneburg after arrival in the old homeland. There are credible rumors that some of the men who had gone with their Commander were put in front of a military tribunal right away while von Lüneburg and his inner circle of men now have ranks in the Imperial fleet. The Rosen Ritter are suffering from the betrayal but the renewed rumors left a bad aftertaste. The rumors might well have been spread by Alliance Special Intelligence to keep the remaining members of their band in line — but every single man here knew that it was likely all true too.

 _Probably from the wrong background or the wrong families_ , Schönkopf thought bitterly. _Even in betrayal the Empire looks at the ideals of Rudolf I._

"He looks young," their Commander Otto Frank von Wahnschaffe remarked, his arms crossed over his chest. "Don't think that the commanding officer of his put him in charge to succeed but he did anyway. Using the Rear Admirals movement as a diversion to evacuate — that was turning a bad hand he'd been dealt. Smart man."

“So not a hero but a survivor?” Schönkopf concludes. They all know that survivors came from different molds — those like von Lüneburg who had only their own success in mind and those who — like many of the lower ranking people in their regiment — had to learn to think on their feet because they’re always dancing on the edge of one cliff or another.

“Ask me that again if the young man survives the next two years,” his commander suggests and grins grimly. “Right now he's being held up to cover that a Rear Admiral tried to save his own hide while abandoning the civilians who he should have protected. Let’s see what he does next.”

 _Yang Wen-li_ , Schönkopf thought. _Let's see if I remember the name after the need for PR communiques has faded. And then let's see where we both end up a few years down the line._

_Chances are we'll both be dead by then._

* * *

“What are you thinking of?”

Schönkopf is standing in front of the big view screen on the eastern command deck of Iserlohn fortress, and he's contemplating the stars while his mind wanders back to that day eight years ago when he heard the name Yang Wen-li for the first time.

The man himself is walking up to him with a paper cup in hand, beret slightly askew and his fringe of mess black hair falling into his eyes. He looks like a man who has a future to look forward to that up until now he has avoided to look towards but knows there are still some tense moments to get through before he can meet it. He looks like a man on the open sea who sees the chance to put the wind behind him and go with a new heading.

He looks tired too, exhausted, but like that doesn't much matter at this moment.

“Tea?” Schönkopf asks and points to the cup.

He has picked up on the Rear Admiral's dislike for coffee.

“With brandy,” Yang admits. “Hope it knocks me out after all the excitement.”

“Can't find rest, your Excellency?”

The formal address slides right off the neutral surface that Yang keeps up at nearly all times — which makes the times when he _doesn’t_ keep the mask in place stand out even more. “Neither can you it seems, Captain. You've had most of the excitement today up close and personal and yet you're here. What are you looking at?”

Schönkopf can't help grinning at how trite his next words are going to sound and yet he tells the truth. “The stars,” he admits

What can he say? He's a romantic at heart.

Yang is more of a pragmatist. That much is clear. But Schönkopf can't help but wonder if he isn't also more of a dreamer than he would admit.

“Hmm,” Yang says softly, folding his arms on the railing in front of the view screen after another sip from his paper cup. “Yeah, they're at their most beautiful when no battleships are blowing up in between them, aren't they?”

Schönkopf can't help but laugh at the statement coming from someone like Yang Wen-li — the leader of their small fleet that has just taken _the_ impregnable fortress that had given the Empire a continued advantage in this war. Yang's hard to read, hard to place, hard to seize up and classify correctly. He has a way of being naively honest and too open and sneaky and careful at the same time. But one thing Schönkopf has already confirmed: The man knows what he’s doing.

"You've taken Iserlohn without losing a single man, Rear Admiral. That's quite the accomplishment. I’m just a gear in the machine."

"You did most of the hard work yourself there, Captain. I'm glad you got out of that one alive. Tell Blumhardt and Linz I'll be eternally grateful to all of you." Yang grins, emphasizing that it's not an empty line coming from him, and takes another sip as if he wants to hide his face behind the cup and then looks back out at space.

It gives Schönkopf the perfect view of his profile, face smoothed out for once and without that tight line to his mouth that belied the constant pressure he’s under as commander of half a fleet sent to do an impossible task. He's a good looking man who despite all he has already achieved looks younger than his years and Schönkopf wonders how he manages to slink into the background and be overlooked when he wants to be out of the spotlight. Schönkopf has seen it happen at least twice already and realizes that Yang is doing this right now..

He's here to be away from being the commanding officer for a few minutes, to get a break and remain _unseen_.

And yet he started this conversation before Schönkopf had spotted him.

“Couldn't let you down,” he says and there's maybe just a little too much emotion in tone because Yang looks back at him over his cup. “Very few people would have been willing to put that much trust in me in the first place. That deserves my best.”

Yang smiles, not a grin or one of those half-amused expressions, a real smile that even reaches the eyes. Schönkopf may be staring. He's not smiling himself at least because he can't do much more than watch Yang smile this very real smile.

They stay like that, facing each other for far too long. The silence should be awkward but to his surprise it isn't. It's pleasant and natural.

It's like they've known each other for years.

“Maybe,” Yang says finally and with what must be the last sip of tea left in his cup, grins at him much more impishly than before; it's another new expression that Schönkopf files away for later investigation — “you should get out of that uniform. Might make people nervous around here.”

Startled, Schönkopf looks at his reflection in the glass surface of the view screen and then down at himself. He's still dressed in the black Imperial uniform with its silver trimmings and its high black boots. It’s not a bad look, which in and off itself is a terrible thing to think.

He returns the mischievous grin with one of his own and holds Yang's gaze. “You make it sound like you want to get me out of my clothes, Read Admiral Yang, sir.”

Yang's eyes are a very dark gray up close too, even darker in this light and he doesn't look away. He’s going against expectations again. With how Yang can dance around issues and ignore the wide-eyed look his sub-lieutenant aide is shooting him with ducking his head and hiding behind embarrassed laughter, Schökopf would have expected Yang to shyly duck his head and leave it at that. But Yang doesn’t shy or look away at all.

“Hmm,” Yang says softly and like his lips — Schönkopf can’t look away —, “if I'd be expressing that kind of interest, I wouldn't have minded the uniform at all actually.”

Once more Schönkopf feels himself staring, catching the moment when Yang's eyes sparked with that hesitant light of kindling interest that’s tucked away again immediately behind the friendly neutrality of his tone. It leaves Schönkopf with mixed signals and a vivid picture of himself bent over a half-undressed Yang who is letting himself be manhandled into bed while enjoying the roleplay that could come with a stolen and repurposed Imperial uniform.

Damn.

Did this man have a playful side in the bedroom? That's just another unexpected idea to unpack - if not right out explore here and now.

Good god, he thinks, amused that he's thinking that empty alliance expression that even for people on this side of the galaxy has lost all meaning instead of invoking Thor or Odin… That’s how thoroughly he’s _not_ an Imperial citizen anymore — whatever he was born as.

His throat is suddenly dry.

“I wouldn't mind either,” he admits, gratified when Yang blinks at him. “If you _were_ expressing that kind of interest.”

At least he can still startle the “magician” too.

“Your reputation implied an exclusive interest in…”

“Sex,” Schönkopf offers and grins his best cocky grin. He knows that he's an infamous ladies man. But that's not an exclusive preference at all. He exploits with the fairer sex make for the better gossip among Imperial born compatriots though.

Yang blinks again and Schönkopf thinks that _now_ will come the moment of embarrassed laughter and shy retreat. But Yang just stays where he is and contemplates the situation and the unexpected revelation.

When their eyes meet this time they are both grinning. Amiably. Not shy at all. Like two men who are figuring each other out and are nowhere near done yet with the probing but have not yet been disappointed with how things are going.

It's strangely exhilarating.

Right then, Yang's communicator starts beeping and the moment is broken. Now Yang looks disappointed and apologetic before he presses the communicator in his ear and says: “Yes? Yes, of course. I'll be right there to take the message myself. On my way.”

“Get some rest too, sir,” Schönkopf tells him before he goes.

Yang grins over his shoulder, eyes sparkling with a softer light than the stars across the view screen.

Schönkopf finds himself alone with the darkness of space, an Imperial uniform he should get out of and too many new thoughts in his head.

He thinks he's going to keep the uniform just in case.

* * *

The mission on planet is a near disaster and the infantry only prevails because of the Rosen Ritter. The battle in space went much better but the Coup d'Etat troupes had deliberately targeted Hyperion in hopes of taking the Admiral out before he could crush them and everyone knows about the assassination attempt by 0700 hours.

Yang _has_ crushed the rebel troops though.

At the moment it does nothing to sooth his nerves or to help with his dark mood.

They're still a far cry from Heinessen - _and someone got to Yang while Schönkopf was otherwise occupied._

When Yang himself opens a channel with him to ask for the scheduled update on troop movements, he has to stop for a moment and just let it wash over him until he trusts himself to answer.

“I'm alright by the way,” Yang says after he has listened to the report and given his orders. He sounds apologetic - as if _he_ 's the one who has anything to apologize for. “There's blood everywhere though,” he says and sounds sickened and annoyed.

“The assassin?”

“Alive,” Yang says curtly. “I hope he can tell us more about how many of the returned POW were actually Lohengram's sleeper agents. Bagdash still holds to the story that has no idea at all.”

“Hn,” he grunts. “I'll be back up in an hour or two.”

“Good,” Yang says. “We need to settle things and move on. Heinessen can't wait any longer.”

The admiral cuts the line.

Schönkopf barks his next orders at Blumhardt with more energy than he has been feeling for the past six hours or so and both Blumhardt and Linz take note immediately.

By the time things are settled and he takes the first shuttle back up to Hyperion, he's covered in soot and grime and there's still more than a bit of blood from yesterday's battle on the olive fabric of his infantry uniform. He looks like a mess, not like the commanding officer of a victorious force.

It's Fischer not Yang who meets him when he embarks. “How are we doing?”

“Ready to move the fleet as soon as your troops are ready,” Fischer says curtly. He's organizing their movements and Yang has already been planning their next moves probably since leaving Iserlohn.

“Get cleaned up and…”

“I'll report to the Admiral and then get some rest,” he contradicts before Fischer can make it an order and they can butt heads over it.

Technically Fischer outranks him.

But not even a court-martial would keep him from going up to that bridge and make sure Yang is actually alive and well.

He stops short when he enters the bridge and sees Yang at the war table, tapping his finger across projections and moving things around. He's so engrossed in his task that he doesn't notice Schönkopf.

But Schönkopf takes it all in at a glance.

There _is_ blood everywhere — on the floor, on some of the consoles — most noticeably on Yang, his beige pants died a reddish brown, the left arm of his blue uniform jacket nearly black. His arm's in a sling and he has a cut on the forehead that’s turning an angry red..

Schönkopf swallows against his dry throat and steels himself for the report he'll have to give like a good soldier on the bridge — professional and unfazed.

But that's when Yang looks up and sees him.

In perfect Yang-like disregard for procedure, he says: “Welcome back. We both look like messes.”

“At least I'm not covered in my own blood.”

“Fair. Although quite a bit isn't mine either.”

Schönkopf notices the rest of the officers have stopped to watch them covertly. Caselnes gives him the “Could you get him out of here? He needs rest”-look. They are in agreement there.

But Yang is already handing a pad over to Murai and marching towards him. 

“I really need to rest. Everything is clear?”

Fischer and Murai and then the rest of the bridge officers salute. There's no jibes or bantering. Everyone just watches Yang go and they know what it means when he says at the last moment: “Schönkopf walk with me. I want to hear the report now.”

Nobody is fooled, of course. But nobody ever dares to call them on it.

They fall into step side by side.

“Patrichev?” he asks, because the absence of their big and protective friends stands out.

"Infirmary," Yang says tightly and he looks more tired than he had after Amritsa.

Schönkopf steers them both to the Admiral's quarters — they're closer and more convenient.

He hasn't so much as gotten Yang through the door before the man turns and leans in and presses a kiss to his lips. "I'm glad you're alright."

“You're glad _I'm_ alright? What about _you_? You are injured. You nearly got _assassinated_.”

“It's just a scratch.”

He winces when Schönkopf touches his shoulder.

"A very painful scratch," he amends. Yang's not a fighter. He doesn't like being in pain and while he seems to have no trouble to keep himself upright and functioning this is likely the first time he has been severely injured. But Schönkopf has seen him work through discomfort and keep the facade up a few times too often.

Not like this though.

This is a first

And the possibility of losing Yang...

It has never been so real.

He grabs the man and kisses him hard.

Yang gasps - half in agony from the pain and half in desperation as he clings on and kisses back.

The rest is a silent affair. They don't need words when they're alone like this. Schönkopf makes Yang sit down in the bathroom, helps him get his boots off, helps to unbuckle the belts, shrug off the pants.

They maneuver awkwardly with the sling, discard it entirely after and After the ruined shirt is on the floor, Schönkopf gets his first glance of the bled-through bandages and the knife wound that got way too close to all the places a would be killer would aim for but instead had only cut Yang's arm.

His kisses right above it, hears Yang hiss and take in a deep breath.

Yang's fingers are busy to get the armored vest off him and his tired eyes focus on that entirely. Schönkopf leans away long enough to get the shower running. They shouldn't waste too much water or someone else will go without a shower before the filtering cycle is completed, but right now he doesn't give a damn. He shrugs out of his boots and makes short work off his own much heavier infantry gear and uniform, while Yang watches him sluggishly from the sink.

Before Yang is thoroughly done with Schönkopf’s uniform, he already has him by the uninjured arm and pushes him under the warm spray of the water. He kicks the bloodied uniform away to a place where he can't see it and doesn’t have to think about it. There are too many reminders that Yang got hurt while he hadn't been there to protect him already.

He steps right in after that, helping Yang to get the blood off his face and body.

It's probably a bad idea to get the bandages wet, but right now he's only concerned with getting them both clean.

Yang reaches up with one hand to trace his face and he hugs him close, just listening to the soft puffs of breath against his ear that confirm they’re both alive.

They stay there for a while, letting the water run down their backs.

Then Schönkopf jumps back into action, takes the soap and starts soaping Yang off, rinsing blood from his hair.

“I can…”

“No,” he orders. In here, for once, the chain of command is broken. Yang doesn't get a say in this. He does not have a very good track record in the “looking after self” department.

Obediently, he lets Schönkopf wash his hair and push him back under the stream. Then Schönkopf starts the task of cleaning himself. Dark rivers of planet-side soot vanish down the drain.

Yang watches him. Silent, enjoying the heat of the water, the attention, the caring touches. He sways slightly with the rhythm of it, but the rings forming under his eyes are near black and he's much paler than usual. His arm and shoulder are turning black and blue and angry red around the wound.

Yang follows his gaze and whispers: “It hurts but…”

He waits.

“Please, I just need…”

He doesn't have to ask for more.

Schönkopf has him by the hips and hoisted up, back against the wall in an instant. Yang's fingers tangle in his hair even as he rests his injured arm at an odd angle on Schönkopf's shoulder.

He tries to be careful but there's only so much he can do right now to prepare them both, only so much he can do to tease Yang's open with one finger then two until Yang is mewling with the more familiar sounds of pleasure, huffing hot breath against his throat, close enough to begging for more.

Sex is quick and intense and Yang bites his throat in a an uncharacteristically violent display of need, leaving a mark. They both come fast and hard and whisper each other's names before Schönkopf has to sink to his knees and they sit in a tangle on the shower floor.

“Wen-li,” he whispers and listens to his hitched breathing.

“That was good,” Yang yawns, he's three quarters asleep already and Schönkopf knows that’s all the praise he’s going to get.

He chuckles.

It's Schönkopf's task to towel them both off quickly, getting them dry enough to make sleeping possible.

Yang's asleep before his head hits the pillow.

Schönkopf makes sure he's securely under the covers, checks the bandages and decides he'll do something about them in a moment. Or as soon as he can’t put it off any longer. For now he just slips into the bed with Yang, both still naked, and watches the rise and fall of his chest.

“I'll guard you sleep,” he whispers and means: “I should have been there to guard you.”

When they are both rested, he'll have someone to interrogate too which is the only thing that makes this bearable.

He falls asleep with a nasty smile on his lips that he won't ever let Yang see.

They're both alive. Right now that's all that matters.

**Author's Note:**

> You can imagine the assassination attempt as a canon divergence for Shampool/Bagdash or an unrelated later incident on their way to bring down the National Salvation Military Council.


End file.
